


Spones Shorts

by PsiCygni



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Drabbles, Ficlets, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-01-22 15:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12484796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsiCygni/pseuds/PsiCygni
Summary: Tumblr prompts, ficlets, drabbles, and the like





	1. Water's Wet

“I’m gonna shower,” McCoy says and rolls up to sitting. The sheet rumples at his waist and provides Spock with a study in contrast between white cotton and the length of his tanned and freckled back.

“Do you always announce your intentions for the morning?” Spock asks.

“You’re mouthy when you’re naked.”

“It is a simple inquiry.”

“Simple,” McCoy repeats in a mutter. Spock does not bother to pretend he is not watching the play of muscles in McCoy’s thighs as he walks to the bathroom. “I was going to invite you to join in, but now I’m thinking better of it.”

“Are you planning to declare your aim of eating breakfast and then beginning your scheduled shift?” Spock calls after him but is either ignored or unheard over the rush of water McCoy turns on.

“It is not warm,” Spock says when he has disentangled himself from the bedding and come to stand before the shower stall. There is no fog clouding the glass, nor clinging to the mirror.

“A good wake-up,” McCoy says. Rivulets run over the ridge his collarbone to the slope of his pectorals, and down the flat line of his stomach to-

“Perhaps you should consider sleeping more.”

“Didn’t hear an argument from you last night,” McCoy says.

“Showers are supposed to be a pleasant temperature,” Spock says, but is disregarded as McCoy squirts an unnecessary amount of shampoo into his palm.

Spock will shower in his own quarters under the sonics. He has neither a clean uniform here, nor a toothbrush, and the morning’s… prevarication renders him not precisely late for his duties before his own shift begins, but not early either.

Water streams down McCoy’s raised arms as he rinses his hair, tiny rivulets finding the hollows and dips of muscle. Spock leans back against the sinks allows himself another moment to contemplate McCoy’s clearly unsound reasoning.

…

“It’s tradition,” Sulu says, which Spock highly doubts.

“C’mon, it’s fun,” Jim says and skims his shirt over his head.

“It’s a thing that we do,” Nyota says and shrugs, at least apparently aware of the inanity of their plan, even if she clearly is collaborating.

“It is illogical,” Spock says but what he truly means is _insane_.

“Good for the nervous system,” McCoy says. His breath puffs white in front of his face.

“You are a doctor,” Spock says. “Surely you are not intending to jump into a nearly frozen lake on a planet with permanent winter, where the mean temperature is so grossly below what is bearable for humans, let alone sustainable for-“

“-Come with us,” McCoy says and steps out of his boots. “We’re just dipping in there for a few seconds.”

“There is _snow_ ,” Spock says and this should be clear. Apparent. Obvious, as it is currently falling from the sky, borne in on a frigid wind. “And ice. And furthermore-“

“-Good God it’s cold,” McCoy says and shucks his pants off.

“Precisely,” Spock says, but it does little - nothing - to dissuade the group of them as they sprint for the shoreline.

 _Humans_ , Spock thinks.

…

“If you’re going to just sit there, grab me another one,” McCoy says from the edge of the hot tub he has arranged himself against and Spock frowns when he shakes his beer bottle towards him.

“Drinking alcohol while submerged in heated water leads to dehydration which in turn leads to-”

“-Oh, quit yapping and get in, would you?” Water seeps through Spock’s pants to his thigh when McCoy lays a wet hand on his leg. “And if the water’s so warm that I’ll-”

“-It is not _warm_ ,” Spock says. McCoy squeezes his leg. Jim tips his face up out of the steam that rises around them and mutters  _Gross_.

Drops of water roll down from McCoy hairline, a slow meander down his neck. Later, Spock will lick at that same trace of tendon and muscle that slopes to his shoulder and taste the faint bite of chlorine.

“When you are suffering the effects of this ill advised evening tomorrow morning, I will remind you of this moment.”

“You two are cute,” Jim says. McCoy huffs out of a snort of a laugh. Spock stands to retrieve the requested beer. His leg is still wet.

…

The warmth of the sun is agreeable. Even the beach is enjoyable, with its roll of waves, nearly cloudless sky, and crab-like creatures that skitter in the foam of the surf.

What is not to Spock’s liking, however, is being dripped on.

“The water’s nice,” McCoy says again, and again, Spock refuses to allow himself to be levered up by the grip on his wrist.

“Highly doubtful.”

“You’re burning up sitting here.”

“A gross exaggeration.”

“There’s nothing to do if you’re not going to come swimming.”

“Untrue,” Spock says for it discounts the rather gratifying experience of watching McCoy swim. “My shirt is now wet.”

McCoy flicks even more water onto him with whisk of his fingers. Spock grabs his hand.

“Sit with me,” he says.

McCoy sighs, an exaggerated blow of air. “Fine.”

Sand coats McCoy’s feet and ankles, and drops of water coat the rest of him, dripping down to where the elastic of his swimsuit rests low on his hips. When Spock leans over, the corner of McCoy’s mouth tastes of the ocean and the tang of sunscreen.

“You’re boring as all hell,” McCoy mutters and angles his chin as if he is not intending to allow Spock to kiss him properly.

“You have made me quite aware, thank you,” Spock says and leans further over until McCoy capitulates with another sigh, kissing him back with salty, sun warmed lips.

…

“I don’t want to hear it,” McCoy says and holds up a finger that Spock supposes is intended to be threatening.

“Hear what?” Spock says.

“Anything.” McCoy leans back and shuts his eyes. Bubbles cling to his chest above the lap of water. His fingers where they rest on the sides of the tub bear wrinkles and prunes in skin that has grown pale from waterlog.

“Activities such as bathing are generally intended to improve one’s disposition,” Spock says.

“Shitty day,” McCoy says.

Spock studies the sight before him. The poke of a knee through the surface of the water, the curl of damp hair at the nape of McCoy’s neck, the red flush across his chest and throat.

Spock turns on the tap. For a moment, the tableau remains quiet. Peaceful. Then, McCoy yelps.

“Goddammit, are you trying to turn me into a lobster?”

“I am simply raising the temperature to a more tolerable level,” Spock says and removes his shirt. “Sit up.”

“This isn’t big enough,” McCoy says as if he is not leaning forward in invitation.

“I quite agree,” Spock says and in the slippery negotiation of knees and thighs and “Dammit Spock, I don’t bend like that”, bubbles and water splash to the floor. He will clean it later. He pulls McCoy back against his chest.

“This is remarkably unpleasant,” Spock says into a curved ear and McCoy’s body lurches with his short laugh.

“It is, isn’t it,” McCoy says and settles back into him.

Spock finds his hand. “Unbearable.”


	2. Sick Day

“Doctor, the act of sequestering yourself is not rendered rational by-“  

“-I explained myself.”  McCoy doesn’t bother looking up from his desk.  He doesn’t stand either, even though sitting means he has to raise his voice to be heard, because he’s not sure the room won’t pitch and that surge of nausea won’t reappear if he tries to get on his feet.  No, here is good.  And it’d be even better if he could get some peace and quiet to accompany his aching head.

“Your reasoning is unsound.”

“My reasoning is the only thing keeping the entire crew healthy.”  

“On the contrary-“

“-There is no contrary.”

The pause that follows is too long.  McCoy grimaces at the closed door.  

“Your office is hardly an appropriate area for a quarantine.”

“I’ll bring it up with the First Officer.  Sickbay could use a decent isolation facility.  It’s logical.” 

“And if you are truly intending to spend the night in there-“

“-I am-”

“-Then you do realize that you lack a surface to sleep on as well as a replicator.”

McCoy had realized this at the same time that the tricorder he’d been holding over Ensign McElhern had identified airborne pathogens.  Of course, McElhern is in her own bed tonight, declared past the point of being contagious and McCoy has already resigned himself to the floor.  

He sighs.  

“I’m fine.”  His eyes are already scratchy and dry, so scrubbing his thumb and forefinger into them doesn’t make it worse.  “It’s one night, I won’t be contagious by tomorrow.”  

Tomorrow at lunch if he’s lucky, or by the end of Alpha shift if he’s not, which Spock probably knows because Spock has to know everything and likely already has the course of every disease known to Starfleet memorized.  It’s been twice now that McCoy has caught him scrolling through his medical texts- and twice that Spock has informed him that more interesting literature is always available with which to populate the bookshelves in his quarters.

The shelf in his office holds copies of the same medical padds and McCoy throws them a long look.  Maybe he can make a pillow out of them, spend the night the same as he used to in med school, long before he ever though he’d be arguing with a Vulcan through a closed door.  

“I am simply calling attention to the fact that considering the lack of caffeine awaiting you in the morning, the crew may well prefer a case of Danubian Flu.”

“Was that a joke?”  Spock will say no, McCoy will tell him Vulcan’s don’t lie, and Spock’s eyebrow will rise in a response he won’t allow himself to voice.  It’s old hat by now, a well worn track that McCoy can play out without Spock even there in the room.

Instead, Spock says, “The transporter is capable of-“

“-No.  No beamed coffee.  No beamed anything.  It’s unnatural.  And don’t tell me that replicated coffee is also abnormal, because I don’t want to hear it.”  

“I could simply override the lock mechanism.”

“You’d get sick.”

“Due to my physiology-“

“You’d get sick, Spock.”  McCoy shakes his head even though Spock isn’t there to see him.  “And you’re a bear of a patient.”

“ _I_  am a poor patient?”

McCoy rolls his eyes.  Once, Spock called it illogical to communicate via such expressions, though whether he wanted McCoy to stop or if he was just pointing out human eccentricities, McCoy had never decided.  Now it doesn’t matter, a cool gray door between them and too many long hours.

“Get out of here,” McCoy says.  Spock has been up for longer than McCoy has and the man can go on as long as he’d like about how he needs less sleep, but last time McCoy saw him there had been deep green smudges under his eyes.  That had been what feels like ages ago, long before they’d gotten McElhern back on board.  McCoy would put money on the fact that even now with the rest of the away team finally accounted for, Spock likely hasn’t gotten even a few minutes of a break.  He needs dinner and a couple hours off, not to be standing out there, still on his feet.  “Isn’t it illogical to keep arguing with someone who isn’t going to change their mind?”

“A fact I have attempted to convince you of numerous times.”

McCoy leans his forehead on the heel of his palm.  He feels clammy even to his own hand.  His quarters are too hot anyway with Spock there and even on the nights that Spock doesn’t ratchet up the heat, it’s still like sleeping next to a blast furnace.  

“You can bring it up with me again tomorrow, then.”  And the day after, and the day after that.  Spock is like a goddamn broken record, and stubborn to boot.

There’s another pause and McCoy knows he’s won, that Spock will leave soon enough, the silence telling even if the victory just makes his head pound harder.

Finally, Spock says, “I will.”

“Goodnight,” McCoy says, too soft for Spock to hear him.  He closes his eyes as if that will somehow drown out the moment that Spock walks away, a tap of boots on tile that McCoy knows he’ll be able to make out, too loud in the quiet of his office.


	3. Crave

A wet smack.  On the doctor’s lip, a smear of sauce glistens.

“Please,” Spock says and McCoy wipes his mouth on his knuckles. 

“S’good.”

“Cease,” Spock requests.  The bone of a spare rib held in his hand, McCoy inserts his forefinger into his mouth, only to withdraw it licked clean of sauce and coated now with a film of saliva.

“That is unsanitary,” Spock says.  

_Indecent_ , Spock thinks.

McCoy sucks on his thumb.  “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”


	4. Sea Change

Leonard McCoy is temperamental, overly excitable, needlessly dramatic, at best theatrical, and at worst histrionic.

Despite this - despite  _himself_  - Spock finds that he is increasingly drawn to the man.

It is inexplicable.  

Inexcusable.

In the mess hall, Spock watches him.  On the bridge, he catches himself turning to where the doctor lingers behind the captain’s chair.

The incessant chatter is distracting and unprofessional.

Spock attempts - and fails - to not listen.


	5. Tender

The first time- Space is lonely.  Too big and too dark and sometimes the nights stretch on too long.

The second time wasn’t supposed to happen.  Of course, neither was the first.

Or the third.

…

“I swear I’m seeing things,” Jim says.  In the dim corridor of ship’s night, he raises both eyebrows.  A grin threatens.

McCoy smooths his palm down his chest and wants to think his shirt is straight.

“Get your eyes checked, Jim,” he says and walks away from the door hissing shut behind him.

…

On an away mission, the fire flickers out.  Rain drips into his collar.  In his boots, his toes curl in damp socks.  

McCoy’s too damn old for this.

There’s one source of heat.   _Logical_ , he can nearly hear, but Spock is thankfully silent when McCoy huddles into his body, shivering.

 _Shut up_ , he thinks.  

A warm hand folds over the back of his neck.

…

Lifting his coffee mug, he catches sight of his shirt cuff.  

The second rank stripe is too thick.

Across the table, Sulu’s mouth quirks.

…

He’s long slept in the middle of his own damn bed, thank you very much.

Toes prod at his ankle.

“Don’t,” he says to his pillow, says it again when an arm lays too heavy over his waist.

He’s ignored.  Typical.

…

His bottles of bourbon are arranged neatly, labels facing forward.

He leans closer.

They’re alphabetized.

…

In the turbo lift, Uhura doesn’t look up from her padd.  

“Don’t hurt him," she says.

…

On shore leave, he toys with the napkin under his glass. When the bartender asks if he wants another, he shakes his head.

He spends the majority of his time wishing he was off the ship. He walks back to it with his hands shoved into his pockets.

The worst part is that he doesn’t even mind.

…

'Nacelle' is crossed out.  Thirteen down has been replaced with 'Eridani' and McCoy squints at his crossword, frowning.

"Who asked you," he mutters and tosses it back on his nightstand.

…

At the end of a long surgery, he used to stand with his back to the sonics.  Now, a thumb works into the knots in his shoulders.

 _What are we doing_? he could ask.

Instead, he says, “Left.  And up.”


	6. Fail Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Spock and Bones go on their first date

It’s Jim’s fault.

And water’s wet and space is cold and Vulcans are logically, insufferably pedantic and McCoy really, really should start reevaluating his posting on this damn ship, his choice of friends, his career, and probably his entire life.

“You two came,” Jim says and McCoy shrugs off the hand Jim claps to his shoulder. “We’ve got a table in the back, c’mon I’ll get drinks.”

McCoy sighs. Spock doesn’t, but his eyebrow does a sort of half twitch that is probably close enough.

There is a table in the back. Full of Uhura and Scotty and Sulu and Chekov and there’s a table in the front, right up next to the windows that if McCoy had any damn luck at all, he and Spock would spend the evening sitting at, arguing about the logic in going to a bar and only ordering tea while Jim and the rest of their motley crew found their own damn bar and didn’t happen to choose the only one McCoy wanted to be at. Alone. With Spock, alone. In some goddamn peace and quiet.

Spock orders tea anyway and McCoy gets a beer and frowns into it with none of the accompanying enjoyment of a terribly irritating debate and sure as hell none of the privacy that he and Spock left the ship for in the first place.

Which was the entire point. To finally - _finally_ \- really do this thing that had been hovering between them for far, far too long.

Under the table, Spock’s knee knocks into McCoy’s. Oblivious, Jim chatters on and Sulu laughs and Chekov orders another round and this really, really wasn’t worth working up the courage to ask Spock if he wanted to come here in the first place if tonight is going to be exactly like every other evening on the ship, now was it.

…

In orbit around Capella Prime, Spock suggests a concert. A concert entirely comprised of sentient trees conducting a flock of gigantic, purple, signing birds that frankly could shatter glass and McCoy must be out of his mind to say yes.

Which he does. Cause misaligned shift schedules and harried, rushed lunches, and the odd night in the rec room with the entire rest of the crew there isn’t exactly working for him and apparently not for Spock either.

So a night off the ship with some goddamn alone time - discounting the screeching birds that Spock so apparently enjoys - is just the ticket.

“Great minds think alike,” Uhura says and holds up a ticket of her own.

McCoy closes his eyes. Breathes deeply. 

“Good evening,” Spock says and drops McCoy’s hand that he just - _just_ \- took and McCoy wasn’t exactly finished enjoying those warm, long fingers wrapped around his own.

“Oh,” Uhura says. Blinks. Looks between the two of them and this, dammit, is why being _off_ the ship was the entire point, because being off the ship means - erroneously, apparently - being away from the crew, and if they’re away from the crew and in the type of privacy that apparently doesn’t exist in the Alpha Quadrant then they can maybe, just maybe, explore what’s between them without the accompanying attention of their gossip starved coworkers.

“Sorry,” Uhura says hurriedly and bless her, takes a quick step back. “I’ll just-”

She points over her shoulder and disappears into the crowd and McCoy always did like her best of all of them.

Her seat is next to theirs.

“Sorry,” she says again and McCoy shakes his head and whatever. It’s fine. Spock actually has someone to talk to about harmonic dissonance and the use of sequential triads and anyway, McCoy only came in the first place for the chance to rest his shoulder against Spock’s and enjoy an evening off work. Or something like that, at least.

Halfway through the first song, Spock takes his hand again and when he squeezes McCoy’s fingers, McCoy squeezes back. They’ll figure all this out eventually. Probably.

…

The outdoor light show on Aldeberan IV is renown throughout the sector.

And really, really damn cold.

“Wear a hat,” McCoy says.

“Heat loss in Vulcans is-”

“-You just don’t want to mess up your hair.” 

He tugs Spock’s zipper up higher. They’re so close. The railing of the viewing platform is just behind McCoy, Spock is gloriously right in front of him and McCoy only lets go of the zipper pull to straighten Spock’s collar.

God, he’s so… so… It’s unfair, really, the play of green and blue and gold lights across those cheekbones and those eyes and-

“You are facing away from the show,” Spock says softly. 

The words are puffs of white in the air between them. McCoy tucks his fingers into the back of that haircut. Spock’s hair is so soft. And his body is warm even through their thick coats, and warmer still when Spock pushes forward until the railing meets the small of McCoy’s back.

“Might be,” McCoy agrees and pulls gently at his hold on Spock and his heart is racing in a probably illogical way because it’s just _Spock_ , there’s no need to overthink this, to hesitate and savor and wonder at the fact that they’re finally-

The screech of a comm makes McCoy jump.

“Goddamnit.” He fumbles for it, his hands stiff with cold. And now the rest of him too, what with how Spock has stepped back.

“Kerensky’s viral load is elevated,” Chapel says when he’s worked his comm open. “And her vitals are falling.”

“On my way.” McCoy punches in the line for Engineering. “Scotty, one to beam up.”

Through the gold swirl of the transporter, McCoy does get a glimpse of the light show. And Spock there, his chin tucked into the collar of his coat. McCoy closes his eyes and when he opens them again, it’s to the transporter room and what will be a long night of work.

Goddamn figures, doesn’t it. Just his luck.

…

It’s absolutely gorgeous. 

The beach, too. 

But mostly Spock with the cuffs of his pants neatly rolled up, his boots left above the line of the waves, and his sleeves folded back as he oh so gently holds a snail beneath the rush of clear, warm water.

“They are telepathic,” he says and there’s that note in his voice that McCoy associates with terribly engrossing sensor readings, an excellent specimen of unknown flora, and the very soft hint of what he can imagine well enough to be a bit of boyish wonder.

“They thinking complicated snail thoughts?” McCoy asks. There’s a brush of sand stuck to Spock’s knee. Gently, McCoy wipes it away.

Spock’s head tips, his eyes tracking back and forth with focus. They’re so clear brown. Catching the sunlight and the shadows of those long lashes and dammit, McCoy might just be embarassed if there was anyone within ten miles to see him here, crouched in the foamy spray of the edge of the beach, mooning at Spock.

Which there isn’t. Thank God.

His finger’s wet from the waves and there’s the grit of sand on his skin and all the same he crooks his knuckle under Spock’s chin and half off balance and entirely too much sun in his eyes, he leans over and kisses him.

“The temperature of the water,” Spock whispers when they finally pull away. His lips are wet. And there’s a spark in those eyes of his and McCoy can’t help himself from brushing his thumb over the corner of his mouth. He wants to kiss him again. “That is how they navigate.”

“Fascinating,” McCoy whispers back and this time, Spock drops the damn snail, fits his hands to McCoy’s shoulders, and this is… this is just… this is _everything_ that McCoy has thought about and daydreamed about and imagined and anticipated and it is still somehow all the better for being honest to God, actual reality.

Which it is. There’s sunshine and pristine sand and Spock kissing him back and _hours_ until they have to be anywhere.

When they finally break away Spock is smiling. Sort of. Or not _not_ smiling and McCoy could very happily spend the rest of the day they have here studying that softness in his expression.

Which slowly turns into a crease between his brows and a tightening at the corner of his eyes.

“What is it?” McCoy asks.

“Was that there earlier?” Spock asks and when he points, McCoy turns, frowning. Spock’s other hand is still on his shoulder and McCoy really doesn’t give a damn about the stick laying on the beach that’s caught Spock’s attention.

Though… no. It wasn’t.

“What the hell?” McCoy asks when he spots a second one farther up the beach.

And then a third appears in an arc of motion from the trees that McCoy was idly thinking would provide a pretty pleasant spot of shade for the rest of the afternoon.

Spock stands with a splash of water around his ankles that catches McCoy in the shins. 

Up the beach, another spear lands.

“Our readings showed the planet is uninhabited,” Spock says.

“Well, obviously not.”

“An astute observation, Doctor.”

“Astute,” McCoy mutters. Another spear buries into the sand, far closer this time. 

“ _Enterprise_ , this is Commander Spock requesting an immediate beam out,” Spock says into his comm.

“Aye, Commander, we’re having a wee bit of trouble getting a lock on you,” Scotty says, his voice tinny and scratchy.

“Great,” McCoy says. “Any logical plan, Spock?”

“Yes.” Spock steps backwards as three more spears fly towards them. One slices Spock’s boot neatly in half. “Swim.”

“Best damn day ever,” McCoy groans and dives into the waves after Spock.

…

This is… less than ideal.

Or, no. It was already far, far beyond unideal when their shuttle didn’t make the rendezvous. Then the rain started and this is just frankly miserable.

“I’m applying for a transfer when we get back,” McCoy says to the sheet of rain pouring down the mouth of the cave. “Somewhere warm. Palm trees. Fruity drinks with umbrellas in them.”

Spock’s shivering. Far too badly to actually make any use of the flint in his white, chapped hands. McCoy sighs and walks over, his feet squishing in his wet boots.

“Give me that,” he says. “Did you eat anything? No, you didn’t, did you.”

“I was-”

“-Making a very geometrically pleasing pyramid of kindling,” McCoy says and strikes the knife down the flint. “Well done. Now put your damn hands in your pockets.”

It takes longer than it should, but there’s finally a fire and Spock finally uncurls from the ball he’s shuffled himself into, and the cave finally heats up enough that they’re probably not going to die of exposure before their shuttle makes it through the ion storm currently trapping them here.

Though they might die of something else. The way today is going, McCoy wouldn’t be all that surprised.

“Tonight’s meal of choice is a protein bar or a protein bar,” McCoy says and holds up one in each hand. “I’ll even let you pick which one you want.”

“They are the same flavor.”

“Hey, I know how to treat a date,” McCoy says and tosses one over. 

An eyebrow inches up that pale forehead. “Is that what this is?”

“Well, romantic firelight, dinner, I’m pretty sure we could make shadow puppets on the wall and call it a movie.” He bites into his bar and God, these things are awful. “Frankly, this might be as good as it gets.”

“You did not bring me flowers,” Spock says and takes the smallest bite possible off the corner of his own bar.

“Actually eat that, dammit,” McCoy says. “And you didn’t bring me any flowers either, if you didn’t notice.”

“There is lichen growing on the cave walls,” Spock says. “It could be collected.”

“Knowing our luck, it’d probably try to eat us,” McCoy says. His clothes are wet and really, the stick of them against his skin is all the worse for pressing up against Spock, but he does so all the same, an arm tucked over Spock’s shoulders and his thumb rubbing back and forth over his arm.

He feels good. Even drenched and shivering and stiff with cold, Spock feels good tucked into McCoy’s side like that. Nice. Like he fits.

“Your ability to assume the worst possible outcome is as admirable as ever, Doctor.” 

“Thanks,” McCoy mutters and rolls his eyes.

Spock rests his head against his shoulder. Under McCoy’s cheek, his hair is still damp.

It could be better. Dry, for one. Far warmer than their meager fire can make the cave. A decent meal. Hell, a bottle of wine even and Spock’s fingers laced with his, not curled into tight balls in his lap.

But it also probably could be worse. How, McCoy doesn’t want to know. But this, here, tonight… this isn’t all that bad. He pulls Spock closer. No, it’s not all that bad at all.


End file.
